


No toilets on the M25

by asparagusmama



Series: Seasons AU - extras! [4]
Category: Lewis - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Toilet humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-31
Updated: 2011-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-22 01:15:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asparagusmama/pseuds/asparagusmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another cut scene from Cold Summer.</p><p>(Intones in pretentious US director's voice): In this scene Lewis is worried Hathaway may be developing bulimia as a response to what has happened to him. James just wants a wee. It was cut because it added nothing to the plot and trivilises the injuries and pain of Hathaway following the crime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No toilets on the M25

**Author's Note:**

> But it sure adds fun to my daughter's bedtime story versions! As any of my regular readers know, most stories are made up first for my autistic, hyperactive daughter to keep her still at bedtime when we are without DVD.
> 
> Lewis and Hathaway belong to ITV.
> 
> Oxford is owned by the University Colleges, The Crown, The Church of England, Oxford City Council and Oxfordshire County Council, the later who should be lined up against a wall, or even better, all magically transported into a pain ridden disabled body left caring for an autistic child and see how they cope with their savage cuts to care, support, school and charity funding....
> 
> Who knows who the motorways belong to? A government agency, no doubt!

“Right,” said Lewis, standing up immediately after Hathaway had finished the last crumb of his cupcake and drained the last drop of his latte. He did look so much better for the soup and cake. Lewis was proud of himself for forcing the issue so subtly. “Brighton.”

“Sir, I just need to...” Hathaway indicated the direction of the cafe toilets.

“No. Come on James. No time for that.”

“Er...”

“Now James. We’ve not got all day,” Lewis said in a voice that brooked no argument.

Hathaway followed Lewis out of Morton’s and onto the Broad. As Lewis marched towards the car, Hathaway struck off in the opposite direction, towards Turl Street.

“James. My car. Now.”

Hathaway turned around with a wistful glance back towards Turl Street, knowing that just a short walk down the lane past Jesus College was Market Street with its entrances to the Covered Market, including, of course, the toilets.

In the car Lewis began to discuss the case, the four women from the CCTV and this Alice Sayer, sociology professor at Brighton University. Hathaway struggled to follow all his boss was saying. As the car climbed Headington Hill and went past Brookes University Hathaway interrupted his boss.

“Sir. Could we stop off at Bury Knowle Park. I really need the loo before we drive all the way to Brighton.”

Lewis, with his discussion with Ngoti and his deductions of James’ binge eating and puking earlier that morning and then James’ refusing to eat anything until Lewis had made him, didn’t answer but pretended to be concentrating with the busy traffic at Headington shops.

“You could just...” Hathaway tried, but stopped, staring woefully behind them. No point saying you could park at the Co-op now.

Lewis glanced at James. No way was he going to let the lad make himself sick, not after he’d got all those nutritious calories inside him. He switched on the radio, choosing Radio 2.

“Could we perhaps, Sir, listen to Classic FM?” Hathaway asked hopefully. His boss often did. In fact, he normally did, unless it was Radio Oxford, especially for the breakfast show and drive time.

“My car, my choice of radio station, Sergeant,” Lewis snapped.

Hathaway stared out of the window, sulking.

“Oh! Oh sir,” he said as they sailed over Green Road roundabout and onto the A40. “Could we stop at Thornhill Park and Ride? I could use the toilets there.”

“I really am pressed for time, James,” said Lewis firmly and turned up the radio.

It was the top of the hour. Their murder didn’t even get a mention on the news. Yesterday it had been the fourth item on Classic FM and the top and almost only item on BBC Radio Oxford. The DJs were handing over following the news, twittering inane nonsense at each other and anyone daft enough – or forced – to listen. Great. It was that prick Chris Evans. Chris Evans and an uncomfortably full bladder. Hathaway didn’t think he’d make it to Brighton sane. Or possibly dry.

They sped through Sandhills, Lewis jumping an amber light and on towards the M40. The Wheatley services! A saviour!

“Sir. Could we just stop at the services? Please Sir? Brighton is a long way and...”

Lewis glanced at Hathaway. Did he really need to pee? Or was this a trick? He’d read how clever bulimics could be.

“It’s nearly a mile out of our way,” Lewis said, determined to keep the vegetable soup, bread, cake and two lattes inside James where it could do more good that emptied out in Wheatley services’ gents. He put his foot down some more and effortlessly slid past the junction.

Hathaway gazed out of the window at the Traveller’s site, his gaze half a mile away beyond, to the services, the toilets, to feeling comfortable.

By High Wycombe he was feeling not very happy at all and slightly more uncomfortable.

By Beaconsfield he was no better.

By the time they slipped effortlessly onto the M25 he began to pray that the traffic around the Heathrow junctions was abnormally light and not its usual blocked self. He prayed earnestly that the traffic on their part of the M25 and the M23 was completely clear.

As they passed the M3 junction he seriously wanted to punch the DJ in the face. He pleaded again for another radio station. Or something.

“Choose some music then,” Lewis said, more kindly, glancing at James and noticing his awkward, leant forward, fist pressed to stomach stance.

Hathaway just selected Classic FM and lay back, closing his eyes and trying to relax, but it was rather hard to do so, the pressure on his bladder growing more intense.

By the M23 it was growing more serious by the second. He was now sat, fists balled and pressed into his sides, rocking slightly. He noticed the speedometer saying 90. Lewis glanced at him again, this time really noticing how uncomfortable James appeared to be.

“Alright James?”

“No, I’m not bloody alright! I think you are cruel Sir. I’m desperate for the loo and did you not think I was not already in enough pain?” Hathaway hadn’t meant his voice to come out loud and slightly higher, angry and desperate, but it did all the same.

Lewis glanced again at James, who thought that this time there was something a little shifty and guilty in his boss’ eyes.

How long does it take for the food to go down too far to be puked up, wondered Lewis. “Sorry,” he said, “I just didn’t want you – you know.”

“What?”

“Forget it James.”

“No. Let’s not forget it! You thought what?” James spat out, discomfort making him exceedingly angry. “Sir,” he added belatedly.

Lewis sighed deeply. “Ngoti told me... We thought...”

“What?”

“That you’re making yourself sick,” Lewis mumbled, embarrassed.

“I just need a fucking piss!” Hathaway wailed.

Lewis put his toe to the floor and in no time at all the glorious sight of Pease Pottage services came into view.

Hathaway didn’t wait for Lewis to straighten up his parking, his seat belt was unbuckled and he was opening the car door and out of it before it had stopped moving and legging it as fast as possible to the toilets.


End file.
